The blow was aimed at his self-possession from such an unlikely quarter.  In Church papers he had frequently come across Chilvers’s name, and the sight of it caused him a twofold disturbance:  it was hateful to have memories of humiliation revived, and perhaps still more harassing to be forced upon acknowledgment of the fact that he stood as an obscure aspirant at the foot of the ladder which his old rival was triumphantly ascending.  Bad enough to be classed in any way with such a man as Chilvers; but to be regarded as at one with him in religious faith, to be forbidden the utterance of scorn when Chilvers was extolled, stung him so keenly that he rushed into any distraction to elude the thought.  When he was suffering shame under the gaze of Buckland Warricombe he remembered Chilvers, and shrank as before a merited scoff.  But the sensation had not been abiding enough to affect his conduct.  He had said to himself that he should never come in contact with the fellow, and that, after all, community of religious profession meant no more, under their respective circumstances, than if both were following law or physic.

But the unforeseen had happened.  In a few months, the Rev. Bruno Chilvers would be a prominent figure about the streets of Exeter; would be frequently seen at the Warricombes’, at the Lilywhites’, at the houses of their friends.  His sermons at St. Margaret’s would doubtless attract, and form a staple topic of conversation.  Worse than all, his expressions of ‘interest’ and ‘delight’ made it probable that he would seek out his College competitor and offer the hand of brotherhood.  These things were not to be avoided—­save by abandonment of hopes, save by retreat, by yielding to a hostile destiny.

That Chilvers might talk here and there of Whitelaw stories was comparatively unimportant.  The Warricombes must already know all that could be told, and what other people heard did not much matter.  It was the man himself that Peak could not endure.  Dissembling had hitherto been no light task.  The burden had more than once pressed so gallingly that its permanent support seemed impossible; but to stand before Bruno Chilvers in the attitude of humble emulation, to give respectful ear whilst the popular cleric advised or encouraged, or bestowed pontifical praise, was comparable only to a searing of the flesh with red irons.  Even with assured prospect of recompense in the shape of Sidwell Warricombe’s heart and hand, he could hardly submit to such an ordeal.  As it was, reason having so often convinced him that he clung to a visionary hope, the torture became gratuitous, and its mere suggestion inspired him with a fierce resentment destructive of all his purposes.